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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25158877">The Sinking Ship, The Grand Applause</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorking/pseuds/dorking'>dorking</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>An Entertaining Diversion [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anal Sex, Angst, Begging, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Marriage, Psychological Distress, Rimming, Suicidal Thoughts, Unrequited Love, consummation of said marriage, maybe dub-con?, season four canon divergence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 04:28:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,032</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25158877</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorking/pseuds/dorking</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin keeps slipping into The Lonely, lucky Peter is there to pull him out.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>An Entertaining Diversion [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1869895</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>36</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Sinking Ship, The Grand Applause</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I'm a simple bitch for marriage tropes I GUESS. Editing this was a pain to do alone, so please accept a very Canadian apology. I know some parts might be clunky, sorry! I'm not experienced with creative writing.<br/>Title is from The Paper Chase song, and euuugbhghgh...let me know what you think if you're inclined! Ty!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Martin reaches for his cardigan when he realizes he's already wearing it. The whole office has taken on a sudden damp chill, impressive considering how the old wood and paper normally makes everything stuffy and dry. There's even a thin film of condensation forming on the small windows. Maybe it's raining, which wouldn't be much of a shock in London.</p><p>Martin uproots himself from his desk and walks over to peer outside. Using his sleeve to wipe the glass he sees that it's actually a lovely afternoon, the sun is shining and people are bustling on the sidewalk. There’s a pang in his chest - he’s miserable, all cooped up inside on a beautiful day. When was the last time he enjoyed his summers, or even taken vacation? It seems pointless now with so many things bogging him down. He thinks of Jon. Martin makes a small sound in his throat, choking back the emotions threatening to bubble up and out. His eyes sting almost immediately.</p><p>Perhaps he should just feel lucky that Peter moved him to an upstairs office with a view.<br/><br/>When Martin turns to his desk, the chill is gone. He spares a glance at the window, which is no longer foggy. Confused, he places a hand on his sleeve and he finds that the fabric is still wet. Martin shrugs it off, pulling into his chair. Strange, but unremarkable in light of the events that have transpired here. He flicks the tape recorder on and returns to the statement waiting for him.</p><p>"Martin Blackwood, assistant to Peter Lukas, head of the Magnus Institute."</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>By the time it happens again, Martin has disregarded the incident that occurred a few weeks ago.</p><p>It had been a long day indeed.</p><p>Peter had Martin working past six o'clock on a few spreadsheets he wouldn't handle. Martin huffs in exasperation. That's right - <em>wouldn't </em>as in Would Not. He's been trying so very gingerly to teach Peter the way around various programs needed to maintain the basic functions of his own job - <em>you know, running The Institute</em>. It doesn't help that Peter is also stubborn, and even worse is that he's flighty - prone to disappearing in order to shirk duties he simply doesn't <em>like</em>.</p><p>Martin takes partial blame for being the one who sprung the arrest on Elias. The two of them probably had no time for going over computer literacy during their furtive little meetings. Not like Elias could come back now and bully Peter into learning Excel. Martin rolls his eyes, internally mocking '<em>That's why I have an assistant!</em>' <em>- bleh.</em></p><p>Groaning, he slides out of his seat. It's growing dark outside, and he can see his breath hovering in short bursts as he transfers from the bus to the tube. The platform isn't crowded and he manages to get a cabin almost to himself. It's comfortable and a bit too warm.</p><p>To his credit Martin does his best to stay alert - it's a few stops to his new flat in Stockwell. He moved after Prentiss was dead, but stayed in the area out of convenience.</p><p>A minute passes and he can't help but close his eyes, nodding off for just a fraction of a second.</p><p>Jerking awake Martin panics, looking around, the world all bleary. The tube is still moving so he's not quite sure if he's missed his stop. It's eerie and quiet, and that unnerving dampness he'd forgotten has come back. He notices the windows have grown wet from the temperature drop, and the tip of his nose is oddly...<em>cold</em>. As if on cue the tube zips into a platform, or what should be a platform. Martin tries to peer through and the thick fog on the other side. Something crackles over the speakers but it's completely distorted as the doors fling open, expectant. Martin grabs his bag and exits. His legs seem to be controlling themselves, although they feel like jelly.</p><p>The signs all read 'Stockwell' much to Martin's relief.</p><p>Behind him the doors snap shut and the tube speeds off into the entry of some obscured tunnel. He sighs, now weary, and moves forward to the stairs. The fog is everywhere Martin can see, and he knows that he is the only person around. Outside the station a hush blankets the world and he wonders if he's dreaming. He clutches his bag to his chest like a shield. Everything is wet without any rain falling. He senses that he should be afraid, and yet he feels at peace. This in turn makes his stomach drop as he pales with nausea.</p><p>Martin can't see much beyond what's in front of him, but he's lived in his flat long enough to have the route down to muscle memory. So he hopes his legs will take him home, and they do. The walk stretches on for much longer than it should and he wishes this...whatever it is...would just end. He arrives at the front of his flat. Shuddering, Martin slides his keys into the lock and moves inside. The rooms are unchanged but frigid, like a winter dawn has cast itself over his life, his possessions. </p><p>He doesn't eat from the lingering nausea nor does he shower, afraid the water will run cold. Instead Martin drops his bag, coat, shirt, and trousers at the door so he can crawl right into bed. His body is overwhelmed with a weakness he's never known. Squeezing his eyes shut, Martin feels a few tears slide down his cheeks. He doesn't know why.</p><p>Dimly he wonders if things will be different tomorrow.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Martin is two cups of tea and one cup of coffee into the morning when he's finally sound enough to analyze the night before. His head is bloated and he can't stop himself from shivering every few minutes. It's like that dampness has crept under his skin and made itself at home.</p><p>What happened last night was not <em>normal - </em>on the other hand it wasn't Prentiss-level threatening. Martin muses that he's established a higher threshold for fear. Sarcastically he contemplates listing that under the <em>Skills </em>section of his C.V.</p><p>At least it wouldn't be a lie. Not like he'd be getting a new job any time soon though.</p><p>Martin shakes his head to dispel his distraction and peeks at the window. It's a bland grey day outside. When he woke up this morning everything felt normal. His shower was nice and hot, although he couldn't manage more than a granola bar for breakfast. Anxiety was making his gut feel swollen and full of knots. Possibly he's getting sick with a flu. He hadn't bothered to take his temperature before crashing and he certainly felt fatigued enough.</p><p>Martin’s body releases a gentle shiver. Then again, he can't stifle a nagging feeling that perhaps something else is going on. Maybe something awful is happening to him.</p><p>Even if that were the case, who could he talk to? Peter had made his terms fairly clear concerning Martin's interactions with the rest of the staff. That alone ruled out Basira and Melanie. His mother would undoubtedly refuse any attempt at a visit. There was one person after her...as it was...is...they could offer scant in terms of advice or support at the moment.</p><p>Jon.</p><p>Martin stops that train of thought abruptly before it escalates- before he finds himself stuffed in a closet hiding his pathetic weeping for the next hour. He closes his eyes and shivers again, pushing his hands under his glasses and pressing his palms down to block out the light.</p><p>"God. I'm alone." It isn't a plea or a cry for help, only a fact.</p><p>Steeling himself, Martin rubs his hands on his face a bit and places them down on his desk. To his surprise they fall into his lap and he lets out a soft exclamation- <em>oh</em>. His desk is gone and there is stillness permeating the room. His body shivers violently this time, and the fog rolls in as thick and free as a cloud in the sky.</p><p>"No..." he stands in alarm and tries to discern any possible shape, faint as it may be. Taking a few steps forward Martin instinctively looks back and finds his chair is also gone. He doesn't know what to do. Last night he was at least able to make his way home, to see enough in the mist. This is different. It's dense and heavy, and moving in it is like wading chest deep through molasses. He breaks out in an unpleasant sweat. His heart begins pounding in his chest and he has a sudden primal urge to begin running.</p><p>So he does. Martin prays that he'll find a wall, a door, a desk, <em>anything please</em>.</p><p>To his dismay he quickly runs out of breath, the fog chilling his lungs with each pained gasp. He does his best to stop crying, but tears flow involuntarily from the corners of his eyes - ripped out of him by this place.</p><p>A few more steps and he slips, falling to his knees in a splash, folding into a quivering mess. It's so <em>cold</em> and Martin is so <em>tired</em>. So hopelessly lost.</p><p>"Martin? Is that you?"</p><p>Something warm reaches out pats his hair, ruffling it with affection. He lifts his head slowly to see Peter bent over him. Martin nearly sobs as he grabs Peter's extended hand to pull himself up. His legs feel like jelly again. Peter claps Martin on the shoulder to help him get steady.</p><p>"Easy lad. What are you doing in here?" Peter questions, his tone balanced between annoyance and curiosity.</p><p>"What do you mean? I don't...I don't know! I don't even know where...what here is!" Martin responds half-hysterical at Peter's predictable placidity. </p><p>"Do you really not know Martin? Come on now, put some thought into it," Peter smiles, patronizing as ever. </p><p>Martin recoils in horror, "The...Lonely? No...what? How...?" He jerks Peter's lingering hold off his shoulder, as if to accuse him, anger spreading over his face.</p><p>"Ah Martin," Peter peers into him, his strange pale eyes fusing with the fog. "The Lonely is my domain, but it does have it's own way of finding people. You're lucky I happened to be stopping by the Institute today."</p><p>"...What does this mean Peter? Am I not safe here either?" Martin asks all serious, despite a quiver piercing through his voice. </p><p>Peter is silent for a moment, contemplating Martin in a way that makes him feel vulnerable. Martin becomes very aware that no one has actually seen him for quite a while, and he feels on display. He shifts uncomfortably, hot under his shirt. </p><p>"It doesn't bode well, I'll say that. Anyway, let's move on shall we?" Peter reaches out once more to give Martin a slight nudge. A grating static builds in his ears until they pop and then everything is back to normal. Martin has no time to adjust before Peter is steering him into his chair and leaning over his shoulder so he can access the computer. "I did have questions regarding some of the documents you sent me the other day, so I'd very much like to go over them," Peter says casually, business as usual.</p><p>An icy weight settles in Martin's stomach, intensified by the warmth of Peter's breath tickling his neck.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>"You know I don't mean to pick on you Martin, but you really should have been more careful last week," Peter chides his assistant, who's face is blocked by the wide computer screen separating them. Peter finds he lacks patience for technology, having such little use for it prior to his new arrangement. A deep sense of loss envelops his heart. Peter yearns for The Tundra and savours his longing.</p><p>"I dunno what you mean," there are a few irritated clicks and taps from the keyboard as Martin answers brusquely, "I don't see how I can possibly control what that...place? Thing? decides to do."</p><p>Peter's smile is a private one - it's not often that he allows Martin the respite of company or conversation. He does enjoy how his assistant expresses genuine disgust at his offerings, although he decides Martin should be more grateful for his generosity - and Peter <em>will</em> make him grateful. "I would bet, Martin," Peter revels in saying that name, as if his acknowledgement alone weaves the younger man into existence "That you're quite a bit closer to my patron than you might have thought."</p><p><em>Mm-hmm.</em> Click, click, tap. Martin's mouth thins into a line as if to discard Peter's insights as mere half-truths.</p><p>Peter stands and walks behind the desk, placing a forceful hand onto Martin's shoulder. Martin stills under the touch, halting mid-task. Peter keeps smiling, "I don't think you give yourself enough credit, Martin. I don't think you understand how truly alone you are."</p><p>Martin swallows, and turns to face Peter with a look of shameful concern - as if he doesn't dare ask how ignorant he's been.</p><p>"Come now Martin," Peter slides his hand languidly from Martin's shoulder up to his neck, hooking his fingers under Martin's chin so he cannot avoid Peter's gaze. "Who do you have left?" Peter's grin is one of false pity, as if to imply - <em>certainly not me</em>.</p><p>"Jon," Martin’s reply is almost immediate, his answer unyielding to Peter's crooked musings.</p><p>Peter strokes his thumb along Martin's rounded jawline with a quiet hum. He's treated to a soft shiver from Martin, who's growing more affected by his tender touches. Peter does delight in how he is the only one left, the only one allowed, to witness Martin with this amount of intimacy.</p><p>"Oh? From what I recall being told, Martin, he's a tad...indisposed at the moment isn't he? What cold comforts can you possibly seek from a hospital bed that may as well be empty, hmm? The hope that Jon will wake up? Even if he does well, Martin...what would that change?" Peter notes the small broken movements in Martin's features, his pink trembling lips - <em>delicious</em>. "Let's be honest, in the impossible outcome that he returns to you, he still won't want you will he? We both know Jon doesn't see you that way Martin, it's sad but that is the truth. I wonder if you've met anyone in your life who <em>does</em>."</p><p>Martin inhales sharply. It's about all he can manage.</p><p>Peter brings his hand to Martin's cheek, giving it a small pat, "Even if he does want you, he'll never be enough to fulfill..." and Peter lets out a heartless chuckle, swiping the pad of his thumb over Martin's lip, "All of your desires."</p><p>At those words Martin quickly stands and jabs a finger towards Peter's nose. "Shut. Up. Don't you <em>dare</em> speak about him like that!"</p><p>There are so many things Martin wants to say in Jon's defense. That there is nothing wrong with Jon being who he is. That Martin couldn't care less about...well...anyway, Martin knows arguing with Peter is a waste of time. He clenches his hands into fists and places them at his sides. </p><p>Peter steps back with his hands up in mock surrender, "Just an observation," he sneers.</p><p>Martin scowls, sitting "Can you please leave me be, so <em>I</em> can do <em>your </em>work."</p><p>Now amicable, "Of course! Cheers then," Peter shrugs and he's gone.</p><p>Martin is left with an uncomfortable tingling sensation all up his spine.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Martin is walking through the rain on his way to work when he steps into what looks like a shallow a puddle. To his shock, his entire body slips into the rippling water and lands hard on solid ground. The transition is so jarring he can't help but heave from dizziness.</p><p>Clutching his sides and trying not to vomit, the dampness closes in around him. It takes him a minute to calm himself enough to process exactly what transpired. He shuts his eyes, not wanting to check and see how bad it is, how far he's been swallowed down into the fog this time around.</p><p>He's knows this game. Still, Martin fights the inevitable conclusion of the whole dreadful scenario. He doesn't want to be here.</p><p>Finally mustering the courage to survey his surroundings, Martin does his best to fight back the unwilling tears pulled from his eyes. There is something about The Lonely - <em>let's call it what it is</em> - that does this to him. Makes him cry. Makes him feel worn and dull, listless. Like his life is ending forever and there is no one to witness his human pain. That's it though, there isn't anyone else.</p><p>Martin cannot see anything at all, not even his hands in front of him. He is as terrified as he is abandoned.</p><p>Martin curls into himself and time passes, if that is possible here. Every lucid moment strikes him like a new thought, as though his mind is starting the clock all over again. He can't keep track of how long this goes on, how inconsequential his suffering becomes transformed entirely infinite in this realm.</p><p>He cries himself raw a hundred times, and shivers himself to exhaustion a thousand.</p><p>*</p><p>Reality rips in half as a pair of powerful arms hoist him up on his feet.</p><p>Martin falls into a broad chest. He chokes, gasping in the fresh open air. Strong familiar hands are resting on his shoulders and Martin sinks back wordlessly, weak and unable to find his voice. He's in his office, too tired to guess how. </p><p>"You had me worried," Martin feels a soft chuckle rumble behind him, "I hadn't seen you for quite a while," Peter croons, rubbing warm circles into Martins arms. "Guess I was right to think I'd find you in there."</p><p>"How long?" Martin's voice cracks, either from his stupid crying or from lack of use.</p><p>"Probably a week," Peter remarks, indifferent.</p><p>So, Peter really had been the only one to notice then. Martin is gutted. "You're in that place all the time, I don't see why it took so long," he manages to scoff with a decent amount of indignation.</p><p>Peter hums and tightens his grip, "I'm disappointed. I thought you would appreciate my efforts as they are, Martin. You could have been anywhere. At home on sick-leave for all I know. Or care."</p><p>Martin finds it odd having Peter say such cruel things while comforting him, caressing his body back into being. Martin tenses at this revelation, because Peter is certainly <em>caressing</em> him. In a pretty forward manner at that. Martin blushes under his collar from embarrassment - Peter's hands are fully stroking his chest and torso and he can't find it in his instincts to hate the touch.</p><p>"You're so cold from it," Peter whispers into Martin's ear, which has turned red to the way all up to the tip. Peter’s hands fall to Martin’s hips, pressing them suggestively into his own.</p><p>Martin clears his throat, blinking and taking a few steps forward. Peter's roaming touches do not follow him. "Uh...mmm..." Martin brushes himself down a bit. "I should get back to work then," he coughs out. It's the one thing he can think to say, even though he's completely disoriented from his prolonged absence. Martin half sprints towards the door "Excuse me, Peter."</p><p>Behind him Peter answers "Of course," and before Martin is out of ear-shot, he calls "I'll try to be faster, next time," affable as ever.</p><p>Martin passes Rosie at her desk and does everything in his power not to grab her and blurt out - <em>Help me. Please. Please</em>.</p><p>They exchange polite nods as Martin makes his way out of the building.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The consistent mechanical beeping in what is otherwise a silent hospital room is reassuring. The various medical devices attached to Jon are bulky, inhuman, and so absolute they ground Martin in reality. Machines are unburdened by worry, functioning without having to think. Martin is envious. He holds Jon's hand, tracing his fingers tentatively over the scarred skin.</p><p>"Something horrible is happening to me Jon," Martin sniffles. He draws the limp appendage to his face "I'm scared. I don't have any control," Martin confesses to himself. Of course Jon cannot hear him. Martin abjectly understands that he is punishing himself. Yes, it's his fault. He smiles into Jon's absent embrace. He can't help Jon, and of course he can't help himself. He is the only one left to blame. Martin places Jon's hand back on the hospital bed.</p><p>"I hate this," Martin leans into the bedside visiting chair. He sniffles, crumpling his tissue and tossing it towards the bin. "I can't tell anyone what's going on. There isn't anyone to talk to...and I don't think I can be on my own for much longer," Martin folds his fingers into his lap, staring mindless at his knees. Despite being attached to his body they seem far away...his hands are distant as he turns them over. The noises coming from the machines fade out of his mind. His body does not feel like his own.</p><p>Is he shaking?</p><p>Martin clams up, his eyes jamming shut as the fog rolls in from the hall, whispering passed the doorway. He will find no reprieve from The Lonely, not here. Shivering, he tries to rally himself. Martin can't predict how long he'll be stuck here this time, but perhaps it won't be so bad. At least not as bad as the last time, he hopes. The tears come as soon as he blinks. That's normal now. They fall down his cheeks like an unwelcome rain.</p><p>To his mild relief, Martin can make out the shapes of the hospital room. Jon is laying motionless in his bed, and the daffodils Martin brought are now a muted yellow. He briefly entertains the idea that he could stay here in this alternate universe. Haunting Jon's bedside like some kind of...</p><p><em>Like a ghost - </em>Martin lets out a morbid laugh. Tears splash into little puddles on his trousers.</p><p>He dismisses the thought. Martin isn't ready to stop fighting yet. He lifts himself from the chair and spares a final glance at Jon, veiled by the mist. He looks peaceful enough but Martin doubts that's the case. It's no secret how common nightmares are around the archives.</p><p>Martin heads for the door, which is a ways off. The room wrinkles around him as he moves, almost grotesque in the way it folds in on itself, like translucent sagging skin.</p><p>He doesn't have a plan, no real direction, figuring the best place to go would be the Institute. Peter would be more likely to cross him there.</p><p>In all honesty, Martin doesn't know what to think of his boss anymore. Their partnership is shifting into something he lacks the experience to define. He doesn't trust Peter, but he doesn't hate the man either. Really, Martin is trying not to dwell on the uncomfortable fact that he's relying on Peter to rescue him. That he's getting accustomed to it. It's a dangerous place to be - dependent on a monster.</p><p>"Ah! Martin."</p><p>Martin jumps at his name as he crosses the threshold of the door into the dim hall. The lights flicker. Peter is waiting, leaning against a plastic rail with a smug look of enjoyment. Martin sputters in surprise.</p><p>"We really need to stop seeing each other like this," Peter quips, arms folded on his chest. He's at home here, boasting his relaxation.</p><p>"How...? I'm not even close to work," Martin sways in his spot. He shivers from the damp, growing aware of how cold he's become. Peter just smiles and opens his arms, beckoning Martin to fall into them.</p><p>Martin does, finding that after a few steps he is unable to stand any longer. Peter is warm like the soft glow of a candle. Martin can hear his heart beating at an inhumanly idle pace.</p><p>"I told you I'd be quicker," Peter replies wrapping his arms around Martin in order to pull him closer, "I think I can tell you what's happening now."</p><p>"You mean..." Martin sounds hollow, his voice is like an echo over a lake. It's so alien that Martin finds he can no longer speak.</p><p>"You're able to call The Lonely, Martin, but I don't think you have power enough to leave it," Peter reveals "Funny, that."</p><p>Peter moves Martin back a step so he can look at his face. Martin shudders from the loss - his body yielding in fear of the truth, his face mixed between submission and despair. Peter huffs in amusement, placing his hand at the back of Martin's neck, his thumb stroking Martin's pulse point. Martin's breath hitches, shallow. Peter leans in and ghosts his lips over Martin's tear stained cheek. There isn't time for Martin to object, as soon Peter kisses him he's standing shocked, back in a busy hallway with only the bristle of Peter's beard lingering on his skin.</p><p>Martin does his best to push all thoughts out of his head, turning into Jon's room and sitting down in the chair.</p><p>He stares blankly at Jon's face for long, long while.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The tube is travelling for inordinate amount of time.</p><p>Martin looks up from his book to see that he is alone in the cart, which had been packed full from the morning rush a moment ago. His sigh comes out in a small puff of steam. Martin groans, more irritated than anything at his imminent crying. He grabs a seat, one which had been occupied, and relents himself to The Lonely. The windows are now bright. White fog is billowing passed in clouds as the tube continues towards some unknown destination. Martin puts his book down on the seat beside him and rubs his arms, trying to generate any amount of heat with the friction. It's useless. His light coat is soaked through.</p><p>Martin reaches back for his book, involuntarily sniffling, and finds that it's gone.</p><p>He snorts "Fine. I guess," hating the quaver in his words. He sinks down into the seat and sleeps like this.</p><p>He dreams of his mother and her disdain for him. What a worthless child he's been. He should be there for her more often - not an intrusive amount of course. He should know when she needs him. He should <em>just know</em> these things. If he hadn't moved so far away it would be easier. Why did he take that job in London? Stupid. Should have found something closer to her. Was he trying to abandon her? He's a bad son - that's all there is to it. He wanted to be away from her didn't he? <em>Worthless.</em></p><p>
  <em>Worthless.</em>
</p><p>The cart halts suddenly, pitching Martin to the side. He feels sluggish but the doors wait for him to take his time. He gathers himself, his bag, and shuffles onto the platform. He doesn't bother reading the signs, his body wants to sit down as soon as possible, not quite ready to wake up yet.</p><p>Peter is waiting for Martin, "Well then! I was right," his laugh resonates from every direction, and it hurts Martin’s ears. Peter catches him before he collapses.</p><p>Martin lets his head fall into Peter's chest, curling his fingers on fabric of Peter's dress-shirt. "This needs to stop, I can't take it anymore," he pleads "Peter. Help me."</p><p>Peter considers Martin with an aching patience, murmuring condescending sympathies in his ear. Resting a hand on the back of Martin's head Peter strokes his soft hair, applying a reassuring pressure. His other hand explores Martin, testing how much he can touch, deeply aware that Martin has no fight left.</p><p>Peter slips his fingers under Martin's shirt, teasing them over Martin's nipples until they stiffen. Martin squirms, small noises breaking passed his lips. Letting his hand fall, Peter traces the buckle of Martin's belt and tickles the sensitive skin below Martin's navel. Martin closes his eyes in conflicted resignation.</p><p>It doesn't take Peter long to alleviate Martin of the garment, unzipping his trousers so he can palm Martin's cock. Martin tenses at the touch, sucking in a whimpering breath. Vaguely he wonders why he's submitting to this humiliation. There is no logical reason for Peter to do this, that said, Martin can't recall when he was last intimate. Their proximity is totally intoxicating.</p><p>Peter slides his hand inside Martin's pants and fondles the growing heat, relishing how Martin melts into his manipulations. He rewards Martin with a few confident strokes, thumbing his leaking crown, spreading precome all over the sensitive skin. Martin's hips buck, chasing the pleasure Peter grants him, gasping in high broken whines. His cock distressingly hard - his masochist heart rejoicing in his misery. </p><p>Peter is the only thing keeping him from fading away into loneliness and Martin has come to accept this. </p><p>Peter exhales into Martin's ear, quickening his pace. Martin moans into Peter's shirt, panting his name like a prayer - <em>Peter, Peter, Peter.</em></p><p>"Peter I'm-"</p><p>"Give it then"</p><p>"Ah-<em>ah-</em>"</p><p>Martin comes into Peter's fist, his dripping spill vanishing before it hits the floor.</p><p>Peter chuckles, wiping his palm on Martin's trousers. Martin blinks the tears out of his eyes, gritting his teeth in shame. Peter does Martin the favour of tucking his cock back into place, "I do have a solution for this, Martin. But I'm not confident that you'll like it."</p><p>Martin can't bare to look at Peter "What is it?"</p><p>In his eternal kindness Peter replies "Just a proposal," as he delicately takes Martin's left hand into his own. Time stands still for a heartbeat. Peter traces his thumb quite deliberately over Martin's ring finger.</p><p>Martin pushes Peter away in an instant, taking two steps back and shaking his head - <em>No</em>. His eyes are brimming with terror.</p><p>"Oh?" Peter responds with a dangerous lilt, "And what do you know about it, Martin? About undertaking the Lukas name, what it could afford you from this?"</p><p>Martin shivers in silence, speechless.</p><p>"Think it over, before you have to beg me for another offer," Peter spits with a vicious scowl, "And you will beg me."</p><p>Martin is left spent on the bustling platform.</p><p>It's his stop.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The daffodils in Jon's room are wilting.</p><p>Martin hasn't seen Peter at all this week.</p><p>He takes Jon's hand in his own, cherishing it like a treasure.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>His mother's funeral is a short and bleak affair. Martin can't find it in himself to openly mourn in front of the scattered strangers, all blank faces watching as her coffin is lowered into the dirt. They begin to disperse once she's buried and the priest has given his blessings. Martin didn't bother with a wake, a reception, or even a eulogy. No one blamed him either.</p><p><em>How hard it must be to lose your mother, we're so sorry for your loss - </em>they all mumble. Martin barely registers any of it, shaking hands as bodies depart one by one. </p><p>Martin's legs carry him over to a stone bench. Somehow he isn't inside himself, his brain is hazy with delay. He stares at the ground with a blood-shot absence. The cemetery is empty now and he is crying. He shudders, weeping and sniffling into his hand. He doesn't really remember sitting down.</p><p>
  <em>How did he get here?</em>
</p><p>Martin chokes, a thin fog is circling around his ankles. Hiding his face in his hands, his sobs turn hard with distress.</p><p>"...Peter," he calls weakly, knowing it will go unanswered.</p><p>Time ceases to have meaning.</p><p>*</p><p>The Lonely isn't so damp anymore. It's humidity is a novel thing.</p><p>Martin passes through the rows upon rows of gravestones and tombs. There is a purpled glow in the distance that bleeds into soft pink clouds. It would be beautiful if it weren't so pale and otherworldly- <em>It looks sick</em>.</p><p>Old rusted lanterns line up in front of him, shining orange and guiding Martin down a path that leads out of the graves and towards massive mausoleums. Mossy statues of saints and angels watch him with benevolent empty eyes. Martin finds comfort in this. He haunts this place for a while longer.</p><p>Just a while. Maybe. Time is an peculiar thing here.</p><p>The gentle sound of lapping water rouses Martin from his fugue as his wandering feet carry him closer, and he happens upon his final destination.</p><p>It is a large, still lake. The colour is a profound deep blue. It shimmers in the odd light of the sky. Like a fond childhood memory, looking at it causes Martin's heart to ache. He breathes in the wet air, thoughtlessly removing his shoes and socks before stepping onto the sand. It's hard and does not yield under his weight. The shoreline brushes his toes, and he is shocked that it's not freezing like he anticipated. The water does not reflect his face back at him. He shivers regardless, beginning his descent into what will consume him. He is done being here, being alone. He wants to go home.</p><p>Martin is nearly chest deep in the lake when he sees waves from a different direction. He pauses taken aback, looking up he let's out a small "Oh." </p><p>Peter is rowing over to him in a wooden life boat, "And what do you think this will accomplish Martin? Really now?" irritation laced in his demands. "It wouldn't even work," grunting in admonishment, he pulls up next Martin.</p><p>Martin sighs in a mirthless laugh "Figures it wouldn't."</p><p>"I'm afraid that is not the purpose of The Lonely, now get in if you please," it's not so much of a suggestion as Peter hoists Martin into the little boat, which manages not to capsize to Martin's vague surprise.</p><p>They sit in silence for a time - Martin's dripping funeral attire pattering on the wood, Peter staring off into the mist contemplative and disengaged entirely.</p><p>"Peter"</p><p>Peter's pale eyes do not move to look at Martin, he just nods.</p><p>"Why...why me? What would you gain from...erm...mmm...well, you know I'm in love with...Jon?" Martin blushes at his admission, it's not something he's said aloud before.</p><p>Peter's gaze now settles on Martin, and for a few moments he is completely unguarded.</p><p>"Yes," he confirms in a soft murmur, "How lonely, don't you think, to have someone who is not your own."</p><p>Martin cannot help but reach for Peter's hand, which hangs unreciprocated in his grip "Oh...Peter I...I didn't know that you, well I mean, I thought that you didn't, and you said-"</p><p>"-Have you made your choice?" Peter cuts him off with a curt snip, defenses back in place. </p><p>"If I...if we do this, will it stop...will all of this stop?" Martin asks in a shaking breath, gesturing out to The Lonely.</p><p>"Joining the Lukas' will give you the ability to leave, but you need to learn to stop calling it to yourself. That's your own problem."</p><p>Martin lets go of Peter's hand and bites his lip, "I'll do it then," he concedes.</p><p>"Beg me"</p><p>Martin grits his teeth and looks away.</p><p>"Beg me, Martin," Peter insists, a callous smile spreading over his face.</p><p>"Please"</p><p>"Please, what?"</p><p>"Please...Peter will you m...m-marry me-" Martin whispers mortified, and Peter's hand shoots out, wringing Martin's throat before he can finish. It forcefully bends him back over the bow and pushes his head into the lake.</p><p>"Of course"</p><p>Martin is drowning.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Their wedding is comparable to his mother's funeral. It takes place in Kent at a small church on the Lukas estate. Martin wasn't expecting much in the way of fanfare, yet the family's complete lack of emotion still amazed him. There isn't any music, and everyone who attends is dressed in sharp black - all sharing the same pale blue eyes as Peter. </p><p>Martin wonders if his hazel will change to that colour someday. Maybe today.</p><p>Peter is waiting for him at the altar, and Martin shuffles down the aisle while staring at his feet. He would never imagine getting married like this, not in a thousand years. The priest, or he's probably a priest Martin assumes, is also a Lukas. When he steps up in front, he does not raise his head. A hot sick feeling is worming it's way through his gut. The ceremony and subsequent readings aren't ones that Martin recognizes.</p><p>The way Peter described it the day before made it sound all a bit cultish, but the basic trappings of a wedding were present so Martin didn't complain.</p><p>He can only bring himself to look up when he's presented with a ring, which he exchanges with Peter. Martin's fingers are trembling as Peter slides a gold band down to his knuckle.</p><p>Grabbing him by the hair, Peter kisses him for the first time, possessive and cutting. Martin sinks hopelessly into the piercing warmth.</p><p>He belongs to Peter now.</p><p>There is a polite applause from the crowd.</p><p>*</p><p>"No reception?" Martin asks as he enters Peter's bedroom. It's sparse decorations include an antique desk, some chairs, and a firm unused looking bed.</p><p>Peter lets out a genuine scoff, "I'm sorry, did they strike you as the celebratory kind of folk? I don't think you'd enjoy a Lukas party very much. I know I'd hate it."</p><p>"...cake would have been nice," Martin mumbles.</p><p>"Don't care for sweets myself"</p><p>Martin is attempting to divest himself of his suit, which has more parts than he deems necessary. It's fancier than anything he's owned before, "...You know I didn't exactly appreciate getting pushed into that lake." </p><p>Peter shrugs, his jacket falling to the floor in a pile "It got you home fine didn't it? What problem could you have with that," he says while shucking himself out of his trousers and kicking them into a corner. Martin tries not to look at Peter out of some strange notion of privacy.</p><p>"Not really the point," Martin doesn't know what to do with his cuff-links, they look expensive, "I don't think you should have been so rough with me." He decides to slip them into his shirt pocket. He slides his trousers off and looks for his jeans. When he goes to grab them, Peter's hand wraps around his wrist. He looks down at Martin, raw hunger flickering in his eyes "We're not finished Martin. Pants off."</p><p>"Do we have to...right now?"</p><p>"Don't tell me you're a virgin Martin"</p><p>"What? I'm in my thirties!"</p><p>Peter simply looks at him with expectancy, as if to say - <em>Okay, so</em> <em>get on with it.</em></p><p>"I um...a-alright..." Martin shrinks into himself, nervous now, turning pink when he sees that Peter's cock is already straining against his pants. Once Martin finishes unbuttoning his shirt he asks "Is this part of a weird Lukas ritual or something? That's all I want to know." </p><p>"...Yes. Now, on the bed." </p><p>Peter finishes undressing, his prick is flushed and full.</p><p>Martin does as he's told, laying naked and defenseless on his back. Peter climbs on top of him and leans in for a kiss. Martin moans into it as Peter's tongue licks inside. He tastes like the sea. Like salt. Like the lake from The Lonely.</p><p>Peter rhythmically grinds his hips on Martin's so their cocks slide together, slick pre-come mixing on their skin. Once Peter has Martin straining against the sheets and panting, he takes his thighs and folds Martin in half. Angling Martin's ass with ease, Peter separates his cheeks and dips in without hesitation, aggressively lapping at the ring of pink muscle there until it's open - teasing and sucking it until Martin’s body is pliant and wanting, helpless with need. Slipping his fingers inside, Peter works the muscle loose with an unforgiving intensity. Martin whimpers when Peter brushes his prostate, desperate when he tries to cling onto Peter's shoulders. Peter purrs, repeating that curl of his fingers inside Martin until - </p><p>"P-<em>ah</em>-Peter..."</p><p>Peter grabs his lubricant and drips it into Martin, who mewls and flinches from the sensation. Lining up his cock with Martin's loosened hole, Peter crashes into him like a force of nature. Like a wave eroding a rock. He fucks Martin hard and steady, eliciting sweet broken gasps from him with every snap of his hips. Martin writhes, his cock dribbling a string onto his belly. His hand moves towards it, but Peter threatens Martin with a growl.</p><p>"Beg"</p><p>Martin swallows, his body burning for release "Please...Peter...<em>ahh-ah!</em>"</p><p>"Please what?" Peter tightens his hold on Martin's ample thighs.</p><p>"Please touch me...touch me, Christ...let me come" Martin pleads, tears welling in his eyes.</p><p>"Good lad"</p><p>Peter grabs Martin's cock and deftly strokes him. Martin keens, he sobs, his mouth open and slack as Peter brings him over the edge to completion. Martin's body goes taut, arching as he comes, his muscles clenching around Peter's cock drawing him deeper. Peter groans, strands of his hair sticking to his forehead as he releases himself inside Martin, brutally biting his neck to bruise.</p><p>Peter rolls off to the side as they catch their breath.</p><p>Martin rests there, unbelievably sated, as Peter’s cum leaks onto his thighs. His own spend is getting cold on his chest.<br/><br/>When he turns to look at Peter, Peter is looking back. He pets Martin’s cheek, running his fingertips below his eye.</p><p>"Blue suits you."</p><p>They fall asleep next to each other, not really touching at all.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Peter is already fully dressed when Martin turns over in the bed. He rubs his eyes, the sensation of his wedding band out of place on his skin.</p><p>
  <em>How did he get here?</em>
</p><p>"Where are you headed? It's Sunday."</p><p>Peter hums, grabbing the jacket he left on the floor. He ignores Martin, busying himself by collecting his things and putting them in their appropriate pockets.</p><p>Martin sits up, "Peter?"</p><p>When he finally looks at Martin, Peter's smile is laced with a cheerful cruelty, "It's been an engaging distraction courting you Martin, believe me, but I think I've had enough fun playing the hero. Make yourself at home, try not to get lost of course. I'll be in touch, love." </p><p>Peter turns away. He has what he wants, and all is perfectly in its place.</p><p>Peter opens the bedroom door and walks out into the fog on the other side.</p><p> </p>
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